Page 57 of Every Step She Takes

“He would check your Instagram every morning like it was Publico , and he would always brag about whatever exciting place you were visiting. I think he wished he was more like you.”

And that, somehow, is too much for me to handle. “Forgive me, but that’s a weird thing to hear from your father’s child bride.”

Finally, my words crack her perfect veneer.

I can see her take a deep breath to steady her response.

“I’m thirty-four,” she says calmly, “and not that I need to justify myself to you, but I was the COO of Quinta Costa—a job I earned before Val and I ever got together—before I had to step in to run the company because you were busy going for a little walk .”

“Okay, so this whole loving stepmother act—” I angrily gesture toward her.

“Is that just about getting his money? Are you angry that your Val didn’t leave you a dime, and you figure your best bet to get your hands on a yacht or two is buttering up to his daughter with lies about what a good dad he secretly was? ”

Her manicured hands fix themselves on her waist. “I’m Gloriana Silva,” she says, oh holy shit . “Of the Silva Corporation. Have you ever heard of it?”

I feign ignorance. “I-I might have.”

“Your father’s wealth is literal dimes to me,” she says with a dramatic swish of her hair.

“I didn’t need his money, or his houses, or his yachts.

I work for Quinta Costa because I’m fucking good at it and I enjoy it, but I don’t need it.

The directives of your father’s trust weren’t a secret to me.

We agreed together that he should leave everything to you.

You were his only child. And nothing I said about him was a lie to butter you up. ”

Two things occur to me simultaneously: I had Gloria completely wrong, and I think she might actually be my favorite of the five wives. My own mother included.

“Sorry, I’ve been a dick to you.”

Gloria takes a long, deep breath through her nose. “You have been,” she agrees with a curt nod. “But this is your father’s funeral, so I suppose I can grant you some grace.”

“The thing is… I don’t want the company,” I tell her, and it’s the closest I’ve gotten to a real decision. “I don’t think I ever wanted the company. I-I wanted to have a choice.”

Gloria’s hands loosen their death grip on her trim waist. “I can appreciate that, one heiress to another.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, billionaire.”

Gloria finally allows herself to crack a smile.

“You do have a choice. You can choose to give up your majority shares, or sell the company, or whatever else you want. But I want to know that you’re making that choice for the right reason.

That you’re rejecting your inheritance because it’s not the right path for you, not because you want to spite a man who isn’t even here anymore. ”

I nearly stagger backward in response to these words.

Everything I’ve done with my life for the last twenty years has been out of spite.

I’ve defined my life by not being who he wanted me to be.

I rejected every part of me that’s tied to him, and I’ve drifted aimlessly from place to place, person to person, because it was the opposite of what he wanted for me.

I’ve been so focused on refusing to become the daughter he wanted, that I don’t even know what I really want.

An image surfaces in my mind: painted cabinets and plants beneath a window and tons of natural light. A place that feels like home.

I want that . I want a place that I miss when I’m away, somewhere to come home to that’s mine.

I want to visit the far-flung reaches of the world so I can appreciate the place I live even more.

And I don’t want that place to be Michelle’s basement or the apartment of whoever I’m in love with at the moment.

I’m tired of feeling like a guest in my own life.

I want roots. I want to be tied to something. And I haven’t let myself have it because of him.

I let that smug motherfucker win .

Worse than that, I allowed his rejection that day to poison every single relationship I’ve had since.

I was vulnerable with the person I loved most in the world, and he rejected me, and I let that moment convince me that if anyone ever knew the real me, they’d reject me too.

I convinced myself that being vulnerable was never worth it, and I fell out of love with people before they could ever fall out of love with me.

I pushed Sadie away because I believed that if she saw this mess of a person, she’d leave.

Another image flashes in my mind: Sadie naked and eating pickles, the juice dripping down her curves.

Sadie’s shy smile as we slow danced to Madonna the first time; Sadie dancing in front of all of Redondela the second time.

Sadie’s soft hand in mine on the plane, on the Camino, in a hotel room when it was just the two of us.

Sadie’s sweetness and her strength and her unending sense of awe; her freckles and her stubbornness; her blue-green eyes and her black Spandex and the way she learned to walk her own path at her own pace.

The way she took care of me in Pontevedra.

The way she made me feel special in A Guarda.

The way she kissed me in Vila Praia de ?ncora, and the way she loved the sunrise in Viana do Castelo.

The way she let me rub her feet in Vila do Conde, and the way she let me cut her hair in Esposende.

Sadie, who made everything feel new. Sadie, who was so goddamn vulnerable with me from the beginning, even when I couldn’t give her that vulnerability in return. The way she made me want to be vulnerable, if I could learn how.

What would it be like, to let myself stay in love? To plant myself next to another person so we could grow in our separate pots, twining our branches together?

That’s when I start to cry. Choking, gasping sobs that cause other funeral goers to stare. Big, ugly tears that make my face hot and sticky as I stand here in front of my smoking-hot stepmom.

“Don’t look at me,” I grumble at Gloria as I attempt to dry my eyes on the sleeve of my suit.

“I wouldn’t dare,” she says, staring directly at my tearstained face.

“These tears aren’t for him,” I tell her.

“I didn’t think they were,” she says. “I assumed they were for you.”

Gloria doesn’t attempt to comfort me. She doesn’t hand me a handkerchief or try to escort me away so no one else will witness my loud, snot-filled breakdown. No, all Gloria does is stand there with me through the snot and the stares, until Inez shows up at my side again and wraps me in her arms.

“Do you think…?” Gloria says before I can walk away with Inez. “Could I maybe call you sometime, Mal?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get to know you, Daughter Dearest.”

I laugh through my hysterical tears, and Gloria smiles at me in return. “We’re family, whether we want to be or not.”

“I—I’m not sure I want to have a relationship with you,” I tell her, because it’s the truth. There’s no malice in my voice now. No anger or resentment. Gloria isn’t Valentim. And maybe even Valentim wasn’t Valentim. Or, not the Valentim I thought he was.

“Nothing has to be decided today,” Gloria says with a small shrug. Her manicured hand dips into her Prada clutch, and she pulls out a business card with a sharp flick of her wrist. “My personal cell is on the back. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready. And so will the company.”

I stare down at the gold-foil-embossed business card in my hands as she walks away.

Gloriana Silva. Damn. My father did always have expensive taste.